Bill unfolded the crumpled napkin on the dashboard of the idling van, smoothing out the creases with a reverence usually reserved for ancient treasure maps. He tapped a grease stain with a calloused finger, his eyes narrowing at the target across the street. "Here’s the ingress," Bill whispered, though the van was parked three blocks away. "We go over the side fence during the distraction phase. I’m thinking a tactical error on their part: the ice cream truck arrives at fourteen-hundred hours. That’s our window." Molly sighed, peeling the foil off a chocolate coin she had found in the cupholder. "It’s a bouncy castle, Bill. It’s not a perimeter wall. We could just bounce over it. Or, and hear me out, we could walk through the gate like humans." "Underestimating the enemy is how we lost the job at the museum," Bill countered sharply, ignoring her sarcasm. He drew a wobbly arrow on the napkin. "We go in during the peak chaos window. I’m estimating maximum disorientation right when they bring out the cake." "You mean when they sing 'Happy Birthday'?" "I mean during the ritualistic chanting," Bill corrected. "The parents will be distracted by lighting fires on a carbohydrate cylinder. It creates a sensory overload. I’ll create a diversion near the piñata. You hit the loot table." Molly raised an eyebrow, glancing at the suburban house. "The loot table? You mean the picnic bench with the My Little Pony tablecloth? It’s guarded by a woman named Karen who has had three glasses of chardonnay. She’s unpredictable." "That’s why I need you on primary extraction," Bill said, his voice dropping an octave. "It’s high-value cargo, Molly. We’re talking LEGOs. We’re talking video games. We’re talking about a haul that could set us up for life, or at least pay the electric bill." Molly stared at the house. Balloons bobbed against the mailbox like cheerful sentries. The sound of screaming children carried on the wind, a high-pitched cacophony of sugar-fueled rage. It sounded less like a party and more like a riot in a candy factory. "What if a kid sees us?" Molly asked, finally voicing the concern that had been nagging at her. "I don't do hostages, Bill. I don't have the patience for negotiating with a six-year-old. They bite." "No hostages," Bill promised, checking his reflection in the rearview mirror. "You just flash your utility belt. We need to look official. I’ve got the high-vis vests in the back. If anyone asks, we’re the 'Present Relocation Specialists.' It’s a niche market." "We’re posing as city officials at a six-year-old's birthday party? That’s low, even for us." "It’s called social engineering, Molly. We grab the big boxes, exfiltrate through the hedge, and we’re gone before anyone realizes the Wii is missing. In and out. Clean. Professional." Molly looked at the napkin map again, squinting at a mustard stain that obscured the exit strategy. She checked her watch. It was almost time. The screaming intensified as the sugar rush hit the crowd. "Fine," she grumbled, reaching for a black mask on the dashboard. "But if anyone asks, we’re stealing the cake, too. I have a sudden craving for carbohydrates." "Deal," Bill grinned, pulling his mask down over his eyes. "On my signal. Wait for the clown to make a balloon animal. That’s when his guard is down."